


You're the Color of a Sideways Look

by Argyle



Category: (500) Days of Summer (2009)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is -- the thing about <i>Summer</i> is that she makes Tom do things he wouldn't normally do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're the Color of a Sideways Look

The thing is -- the thing about _Summer_ is that she makes Tom do things he wouldn't normally do.

Which is to say, she doesn't _make_ him do things. He's not a goddamned pushover. But she has a way of looking at him with her mouth like so and her eyes just right, and he knows he can't deny her anything.

He knows he'll be happier for it too.

And nothing's out of the blue, not really, not a day at Venice Beach watching the buskers or a late night drive to San Diego, Tom buzzed out of his mind on espresso and Summer passed out in the passenger seat, her face tilted towards the window in such a way that the highway lights spill golden across her. Summer is terrific at sleeping in the car.

Tom leaves the music just loud enough to keep himself awake. He goes ten miles over the speed limit, which he hates to do, but he knows it'll be worth it to be there by dawn. There's nothing quite like that first hint of sun over the ocean as it parts the fog.

*

"This is disgusting," shouts Tom. "This is really, really disgusting."

"I thought you liked eighties stuff," Summer shoots back. "And we haven't even gotten to the good part."

"I'm already covered in blood!"

"Water with food coloring," Summer corrects. She reaches forward to drag a finger down Tom's throat, then stares down, bemused, when it comes back red.

Tom suppresses a shudder. Yeah, it was kind of a rite of passage -- "She's taking you to see fucking _Gwar_ , dude!" McKenzie had whooped when Tom told him. "The girl is unreal!" -- but of the sort he tended to carefully avoid, like drinking 190-proof grain alcohol out of a garbage bin or cleaning the grout in his shower.

Summer looks at him askance. She's wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, which seems a big and rare thing in itself, and though she'd been begging to get splattered, she's mercifully stain-free. "Do you want to leave?"

"No," Tom says.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Summer smiles, and Tom suddenly wonders whether if he left, she wouldn't stay behind anyway. It's not like he doesn't want her to have a good time. "Okay, Tom. But don't say I didn't warn you about the blazer."

"Do I look worried? It's not like I don't have -- how did you put it? -- _hundreds_ of them," Tom says, taking her hand to rub more red on her.

She just uses this as an opportunity to drag him closer to the stage.

*

They eat more Thai food than Tom ever thought possible.

It isn't that he doesn't like Thai. In fact, he loves it. But at least twice a week they're trouncing through the door of whatever hole in the wall they haven't tried yet but Summer heard was great, and often it's clear to the other side of the city, because Summer is on the hunt for the best _kaeng khiao wan_ ever.

Tom orders something different at each place, never quite settling on a favorite, but he always tries a little of Summer's meal. They've almost all been totally delicious. But Summer has high standards.

Only it's not just Thai, but also Malay and Caribbean, Moroccan and Ethiopian.

At a Korean place on Wilshire, Tom takes up two of the chicken feet that Summer ordered, but upon seeing them, decided she didn't really have the appetite for, then holds them between thumb and forefinger and discreetly begins to make them dance.

It's really gauche. He knows it.

But something's up with Summer today -- they'd barely spoken on the ride over, and Tom can only ask her if she's all right so many times before she blows up at him. He's willing to risk the high to extreme possibility of being banned from the restaurant to make her smile.

"What are you doing?"

"Oceana Roll."

Summer rolls her eyes, poking at her rice with her chopsticks. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Huh?" Tom shifts the feet back and forth one more time. "Charlie Chaplin? You know, _The Gold Rush_?"

"No."

"We'll have to watch it. I have the DVD. I mean... we could tonight. If you're free."

"Tonight is Blaise's gallery opening. Did you forget?"

"No," Tom lies. "I mean, you know me. I'd never turn down free wine and nosh."

"That's not a bad excuse," Summer says, dryly.

In fact, Tom suspects he's getting a little squishy around the middle.

*

So the sex is great.

This isn't something Tom needs to admit to himself. He knows it's true with every fiber of his being. Like just about everything else, Summer has brought the best into his life.

And it also isn't something he really feels the need to talk about with Paul and McKenzie, or god help him, Rachel. Somehow, he thinks it would be less _his_ if they all knew the details.

But outside the bedroom (or sofa or kitchen counter or backseat of the car -- they haven't made it to these places, but Tom imagines they will), he and Summer don't really talk much about it either.

Sure, there's the whole "penis" in the park thing, though Summer does that more to get a rise than to titillate.

It isn't like Tom hasn't tried to breach the subject while they're driving or walking back to his flat after a movie. He doesn't mean to goad her into things, he really just wants to make sure she's happy with how said things are going. This is because a few years ago he'd read that it's best to separate intimacy from talk of intimacy. And Summer -- here's where that admittance bit comes in -- is the first woman he's had at hand in the time since to test out that philosophy.

She usually just shrugs him off.

So there's no surprise when one night Summer rebounds to his meanderings with, "Well, Tom -- I've been thinking about getting some nipple clamps to use on you."

That's Summer, right? So flippant -- Tom loves that about her, and can't help but laugh. "Sure, Summer," he says.

Tom forgets about it until she has the chain in her hands.

They're in his bed on a Saturday morning. It's a time he usually likes to just spend watching the movement of the curtain on the screened window, and the light filtering through, warm over the single sheet. Over Summer.

She's smiling: mischievous, but also candid and wide.

"Jesus."

"You okay, Tom? I mean it's not like we don't experiment."

"Yeah, but leather cuffs and vibrators are a little different," Tom says. He means it. But he feels a prickle of arousal at the thought. Months ago already, Summer had taken to playing with his nipples during foreplay, and now just a few pinches, a few subtle turns of her fingers while he thrusts into her are enough to all but drag him over the edge.

Summer knows how it works, how the pain gets him hard.

"It isn't about..." he trails off. And again: "I want..."

"Want what?"

He's at a loss. So he kisses her, a little sloppily, and in a moment, Summer's pushing him back onto the bed. Her hands run over his shoulders, his chest, and he thinks he must be sweating already.

"Let me do this for you," Summer whispers, her breath ghosting over his ear. Then she shifts. She moves her tongue across one nipple, and with her fingers works it until it's firm before she takes the clamp between thumb and forefinger and attaches it.

The pain is ridiculous. Why would he-- How is it possible-- But he can't even think through it. There's no point in watching as the second clamp comes down.

Summer is above him again. "Tom? Okay down there?"

"Yeah," says Tom. Hell, he's more thank okay. He's fucked, utterly.

"Want a little more?" Summer's hand is on his chest, hanging close to his too-quick heartbeat, close to the chain. She pulls it. Just slightly, but it's enough to send him reeling into what isn't exactly agony. The sensation shoots straight to his groin and it's like he's unraveling. Really coming apart. He imagines his muscles and ligaments have all gone to thread.

Yep, he's fucked.

" _Oh_."

"I'll take that as a yes." Summer pulls the chain a little harder. Then she lowers her free hand to pull down his boxers, freeing his cock, and begins to work him, too slowly, not enough.

Tom wrenches his hands in the sheets, panting, "Please."

And Summer shifts down, flicks at the tip of his cock with her tongue, takes him into her mouth while she still pumps the shaft, and he has no idea how but she's tugging at the chain again.

That's it. The ache in him builds until there's nothing else, and Tom comes and it's like he's waking up, like he's been asleep for all this time and he didn't even know it.

"Wow," Summer says with a sidelong grin after Tom has stopped trembling. He realizes she's still in her PJs, totally clothed and disarming as anything. She helps him take the clamps off -- it hurts like crazy, but she rubs at his tender skin, easing the ache, the sudden feeling of loss.

Tom pulls her down to him, circling his arms around her. She laughs into his skin.

"Morning, Tom."

"You know, we don't have to go anywhere today," he ventures, his voice huskier than he expects, and also (he thinks) devastatingly attractive.

"Why, got something in mind?"

"Maybe."

Soon, her hands are in his hair and his tongue is in her mouth and it's like the whole world would stop for this girl if she let it. But she's here, with him.

Shit, but it shouldn't be possible to feel like _this_ about someone.

*

In October, they fly up to San Francisco for a weekend.

Tom takes Summer to all the regular tourist spots: Chinatown, Fisherman's Wharf. And then to Ghirardelli Square where they share a double-chocolate sundae on the uncovered patio, though it's really too cold to do either.

Then the next day, when Tom takes Summer to see his own favorite views, he saves the Golden Gate Bridge for last.

It's windy. But the evening sky is blue and clear enough that he's willing to shrug off everything else.

They walk out to the middle, and Tom is floored by the size and grandeur of it, just like he always is. The city lights have begun to flicker on. The water reflects them all.

"Wow," says Summer, leaning against the rail to stare over the side. Her eyes are wide, and she looks so open and awed -- it's all Tom can do to not turn her around and kiss her as deeply as he's able.

He settles for this: his hand through her hair to tuck the blown strands beneath her hat and behind her ear. He brushes his lips there, briefly. "What do you think?"

"Makes you feel pretty insignificant."

"I don't know," says Tom. "It always makes me feel _big_. To think that someone designed this, and then had the audacity to build it. And now it's here and people come from all over the world to see it. It's amazing."

"Something like twenty-five people jump off it every year."

"Okay. _Why_ do you know that?"

"It's just a statistic," says Summer. "Maybe I heard it on _Jeopardy_."

Tom leans into her, but stares for a long moment over the bay. "C'mon," he says, rubbing her knuckles through her gloves. "I know a pizza place you're really gonna love."

"And then what?"

"And then we catch our flight and go home."

*

"Summer? Summer, are you coming?" Tom calls around a mouthful of pretzel bites.

"Yeah, just a sec."

Tom can see her backside sticking out of the fridge, and then the whole of her, two beers in each hand.

She catches his raised eyebrow. "So we don't have to get up for a while."

"I like the way you think."

When she's settled on the sofa beside him, he takes the remote to flick _Play_. Summer opens beers for the both of them, and they clink the bottles as the opening credits of _The Gold Rush_ begin to roll.

"What are we toasting to?" asks Tom.

Summer appears to consider this. Then she says, "To days gone by."

"Cheers," says Tom. He leans forward to set his bottle down on the coffee table, wanting to hold her, wanting to have her curl up by his side, but then Summer stops him.

"You have to drink before you put it down," she says. "Otherwise, it's bad luck."

Tom snorts. But he drinks almost half the bottle in one long pull, savoring the superstition.

*

The thing about Summer is that she has a way of making the things they do seem like they were Tom's idea in the first place. Tom doesn't mind. Not really.

**Author's Note:**

> My first square on the kink_bingo card :) for the prompt nipple play/tit torture. The title is from the song "40 Dogs" by Bob Schneider.


End file.
